


Worth It

by amyfortuna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Father/Son Incest, Feanorian OT8, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Rough Sex, Scratching, Season of Kink 2019, Sloppy Seconds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 22:07:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19895101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: One early morning, Celegorm surprises Fëanor in the kitchen.





	Worth It

**Author's Note:**

> Season of Kink 2019 card: Rough Sex.

The day was warm but breezy, one of those ideal days in the morning of the world in Aman. A few clouds drifted lazily across the golden sky in a way that heralded rain much later in Telperion’s light. Yet in Laurelin’s, the cool breeze balanced out the warmth of the Tree and Fëanáro knew there would be no rain. 

Maitimo and Makalaurë were still asleep, curled around each other like puppies in the large bed he had shared with them the night before. Careful not to disturb them, he pressed a light kiss to each forehead, and tiptoed out of the room. 

Peering into the room next door, he could see Curufinwë and Carnistir still asleep as well, with a space between them that Tyelkormo had clearly vacated some while before. He smiled at the thought of his energetic son, his well-named ‘Early Riser.’ Tyelko was no doubt off running through the nearby woods, as was his wont in the morning. 

He made his way downstairs. Birds were singing loudly in the trees outside, but otherwise it was silent. The kitchen was still a bit of a mess from the night before, dishes forgotten in the sudden rush of linguistic inspiration — followed by erotic inspiration — that had fallen over him the night before, catching Maitimo and Makalaurë in its wake and dragging all three of them into the bedroom for a long night of poetry creation interspersed with lovemaking. He smiled as he recalled Makalaurë singing softly in counterpoint to Maitimo’s caresses, while he himself wrote down verse after verse of the most ecstatic rhyme. 

Lost in blissful memory as he cleared off the kitchen table, even removing the tablecloth, and washed the dishes, he completely failed to notice the front door opening and closing softly, nor the light footsteps of the hunter that stalked him, until suddenly he was caught by the waist, losing his hold on the soapy dish he held, and with a yelp, tossed down on the kitchen table. 

“Tyelko!” he chided. “Could you not have waited until I finished the dishes?” 

Tyelkormo’s response was nothing more than a raised, eloquent eyebrow, a long look down Fëanáro’s nude body, and a dishcloth thrown in his direction with a glance at his still-wet hands. 

Fëanáro quickly dried his hands on the dishcloth and threw it to the side just as Tyelkormo pounced on him. The young hunter was naked himself, and had clearly been running through the woods clad in nothing more than his own skin. His long silver hair was loose and tangled, and Fëanáro’s hands rose up almost of their own accord to sink into it just as Tyelko bent to ravage his throat, raking fingernails down his back. 

Fëanáro could not hold back his moans at the dual sensations, exquisite just bordering on painful. His wild son kissed him, biting at his lips and at the tongue Fëanáro pressed into his mouth. “I need you, Father,” he gasped, and the evidence of that was hard against Fëanáro’s hip. 

“Take me, then,” Fëanáro said. 

Tyelkormo’s answer was a bite to Fëanáro’s right nipple, a hand sliding down his body, pinching and groping as it went, and finally two fingers slipping into his hole, still slack from use by Maitimo not an hour before in a sleepy, needy, sloppy final round of sex. Despite the long night, Fëanáro had been ready to go again from the very moment Tyelko touched him. 

Tyelkormo wasted no further time on preparation but pressed Fëanáro even harder down on the table with a hand on his chest, made his way down his father’s body, lifted Fëanáro’s legs to his waist, and pushed his cock into him without further ado. 

Fëanáro wrapped his legs around his son’s waist and held up his hands for Tyelko to grab them and pull him up. Tyelko obliged, taking the opportunity to rake his nails down Fëanáro’s back again, a longer stroke this time, making Fëanáro shiver at the sting of it. 

He was prepared for Tyelko to hammer at him hard and fast, but Tyelko slowed down instead, taking him by surprise, prolonging the sweet burn of his cock inside Fëanáro’s hole. Rather than rough and quick, it was rough and slow, every stroke a lingering ecstasy of agony, every touch a scratch, a pinch, a pull, or a scrape of sharp fingernails, every kiss a bite as if of some delicate confection, leaving marks on Fëanáro’s throat, lips, and chest. 

The table was a firm and sturdy one, carved by Tyelkormo and Maitimo as a joint project some years before. It only creaked a little as Tyelko finally lowered Fëanáro down onto his back and began to speed up his thrusts, taking his father’s cock in his fist and roughly jerking him off. 

Fëanáro watched Tyelko’s silver hair catch the light as it slid over his shoulders and pooled on Fëanáro’s chest in soft waves. His son shook, crying out, as he thrust into him one last time before orgasm hit him. Even in the midst of bliss, Tyelko kept his hand moving, until Fëanáro’s eyes fluttered shut in his own ecstasy. With a final gasp, Tyelko buried his face in Fëanáro’s chest, not caring that there was seed in his hair. 

They were both still breathing hard when Fëanáro noticed footsteps making their way toward the kitchen. Raising his head to look out the open kitchen door, Fëanáro saw Carnistir, clad only in a robe, coming toward them, at the same time that Carnistir noticed them on the table.

Carnistir raised his hand, pointing a finger at both of them but clearly directing his ire at his brother. “How many times have I told you, Tyelko! NO SEX ON THE KITCHEN TABLE!” 

Tyelko arched an eyebrow, then looked down at Fëanáro. “Worth it,” he said with a grin.

**Author's Note:**

> Carnistir's attitude about the kitchen as a place to have sex is shamelessly stolen from uumuu's wonderful story [Misplaced](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4138008).


End file.
